


a blood red setting sun

by peculiar_mademoiselle



Series: dead to all pleasure [3]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020), Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Love, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22536331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle
Summary: Giving in.
Relationships: Count Dracula/Jonathan Harker, Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: dead to all pleasure [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604788
Comments: 18
Kudos: 334





	1. demeter

It’s dark in the box. 

The contents, musty soil, as grey as ash, shifts with the roiling waves. Logically Jonathan knows he is sealed in a crate in the cargo hold of a ship, travelling to England. However, as he sits there with eyes half-lidded, his mind wanders down other paths. Sometimes the box feels warm, and safe, an embrace of earth that is somehow now his. Other times, it’s like a tomb, and he can barely hold back the scream trapped at the back of his throat.

Dracula is staying above deck, he knows that much. Of course, he visits him often enough, dragging some half-dead poor soul to Jonathan’s hungry mouth, feeding him like he’s a baby bird. He tucks him back into the dirt like he’s putting a child to bed, caressing his cheek with an indulgent smile. 

Jonathan misses him when he’s gone. He has something of an insight into his antics through the memories of his latest meal, but it’s not the same as being with him. 

He can’t remember when he started _wanting_ that.

Dreaming is a new favourite past time, or rather, it’s all he has. He dreams of the past - his memories are scattered and torn, with some more damaged than others. Memories of Mina especially are so obscured, it’s like he’s trying to watch them through running water. Even the attempt makes his head ache. His Mother, however, is clearer. There are times when he closes his eyes yet can see her as though she stands before him. 

Her face is pale and wan, her hair so light it almost bone-white. She usually looks at him sadly, in his memories. He only remembers her smiling once, when he was a tiny child. They’d been left alone in the garden, and they’d played, his Mother rolling in the grass, laughing gaily. She’d been ripped from her wild girlhood, root and stem, and married off to his Father. An iceberg of a man who’d taken great pleasure in crushing her underfoot. 

Jonathan had been at boarding school when she’d succumbed to typhoid. His Father informed him in a letter weeks later, when she was already underground. It takes everything in him to convince himself that the look in his dream-Mother’s eyes is merely melancholy, and not judgement. 

He can’t let his dreams of her bleed into the others. Sometimes the past is unreachable, and the images that fill his mind's-eye are of Dracula. Dracula’s mouth on his own, on his neck, between his legs. His fists clench and unclench during those dreams, and he rides the wave of longing with a low moan, as he waits for the wave of self-disgust that he knows will follow. The wait is growing ever longer. 

Hours stretch into days, and the days unfold into weeks. Dreams and blood and loneliness combine, until time feels like it no longer ticks at all; he is suspended, between places, between loves, while the sea rocks him like a babe. _Metamorphosis_. The box is neither an embrace nor a tomb. It is a chrysalis. The broken shards of Jonathan Harker are reformed, his parchment skin turning to ivory, his shattered nail beds becoming home to what could accurately be termed talons, his teeth sharpening to points behind full lips. His awareness of reality slips away, as he sinks into a stupor, half-awake and yet dead to the world.


	2. hades & persephone

He comes to lying in bed. 

For a single bewildering moment he thinks he’s home with...with _her_. He realises he isn’t at the exact moment he realises he can’t remember her name. Something inside him sinks at that, but he pushes it down. The light in the room is low, lit by candles, and even though the heavy velvet curtains are drawn, he can tell it’s night. The furnishings are dark and plush, all reds and blacks, holding onto warmth. His knees knock when he stands, and his outstretched pale hands have a not imperceptible quiver. 

The door opens with a click, and he pads down the hall, to a room which is emanating a golden glow. Said glow is coming from a roaring open fire, the centrepiece of a rather lovely sitting room. Books line the walls, and in the middle is a lush carmine sofa. Sitting on said sofa, flicking through papers is Count Dracula. He looks huge against the furniture, sprawled diagonally as he is, emphasising the length of his powerful legs. He glances up, and his lips quirk, though he tries to hide his pleasure. 

“Oh, you’re up,” he says casually, turning back to his documents. 

“Where -,” he tries again, “where are we?” Jonathan’s voice is croaky from disuse, and his mouth feels horribly dry. He licks his lips involuntarily. 

Dracula does lower his papers at that, looking at Jonathan as though he’s just asked a horrendously stupid question. 

“London - remember?” he asks, using a tone that most reserve for the smallest of children. It all floods back to Jonathan then, the castle, the ship and now...home. There’s a voice at the back of his head that tells him this is his chance. He knows London, he could run, he could find someone to help him, he could bring the law, then return to his house and his bed. 

Except he doesn’t. He feels cold to his bones after his slumber, the way one does when they wake to find their fire has gone out. Dracula is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to catch on, yet he can’t focus on that. What he does focus on is Dracula’s slightly open white shirt, exposing his chest - he looks warm.

Without thinking, Jonathan crosses the room, and folds himself into the Count’s lap. He wraps his arms around his thick torso, hugging him close. He presses his cheek against Dracula’s chest, and closes his eyes. For the tiniest of instants, Dracula is surprised and stiffens, but he quickly relaxes, wrapping his arms around his shivering bride, enjoying the feeling of Jonathan rubbing his head against him like a cat. 

"What’s all this?” he questions, barely suppressing the laugh he wants to let out. 

“Missed you,” Jonathan murmurs, pulling away to look into Dracula’s eyes. His eyes are dark as night, and he is perfectly reflected in them, small and trapped. Like an insect preserved in amber. The Count’s smile is wicked, as he moves a hand to cup the back of Jonathan’s head. 

“Good boy.”

They kiss without reticence, hot and slow and messy, luxuriating in it. Jonathan arranges himself so that he’s straddling Dracula’s lap,and deepens the kiss. It’s not a shock when Dracula shimmies down their trousers, but he mewls all the same, knowing what’s coming next. A spit-slicked finger enters him, widening his entrance. He pulls back a little, pupils blown wide. Dracula doesn’t release his mouth though, instead biting on his bottom lip, pulling it between them and drawing a little blood, which then mingles in their mouths.

Another finger soon follows the first, pushing in and out of him gently. Dracula moves to kiss the side of his face, and then nibbles on his sensitive neck. They’re both painfully hard, and it isn’t long before Dracula’s fingers are replaced by Dracula’s cock. The sensation of being filled lights up every nerve ending in Jonathan’s undead body, and banishes what’s left of the chill and the tiredness that had dogged him. He moans in time with Dracula’s thrusts, rolling his hips, trying to get as close as possible. 

It’s during this, that something reappears in his mind like a lightning bolt. A woman’s face dances behind his closed eyes. Her features are delicate and elfin, her expression somehow both kind and coquettish, her curls are as soft as spun-silk, and the colour of honey. _Mina_. The memory hits him like a blow to the chest, and part of him clings onto it with a tenacity he didn’t know he possessed. 

The rest of him though, is too consumed by the other feelings rushing through him. He’s being held so tightly, in the arms of someone so frightening, but so strong. He’s still rocking in his lap and he rides him, pleasure crackling from his core to every extremity, white-hot. He gasps with pleasure and panic, as he recognises that if he lets Mina go now, he’ll likely never recall her again. He opens his eyes just as they prick with tears, and Dracula meets his gaze, unblinking and still thrusting his hips. 

Jonathan wars with himself. He remembers wanting to kill this man, remembers the thrill that the thought of burning him up, or cleaving his head clean off with a shovel, inspired. But Dracula’s grip is so strong, he’s sure he’ll have purple handprints on his hips tomorrow. A single hot tear slips down Jonathan’s face. Dracula licks it away. 

Their lips meet again, and it is a collision, of hatred and something so sick and twisted it could be called love. Jonathan’s last thought of Mina Murray is that he has utterly betrayed her. 

He comes shortly after with a shout, and Dracula follows. Collapsed against Dracula’s shoulder, he feels like a marionette with its strings sliced. There’s so much he wants to say, as his husband lies back beneath him, sated. But just this once, his words fail him, so he channels all his feelings into a single kiss, which he presses into Dracula’s chest. Marking the spot where his heart used to beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed <3 Do let me know!
> 
> Title is from Love Crime by Siouxsie Sioux.


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